The Telephone Call
by thethingthathasnoname
Summary: How I think the racing car accident and following telephone call between Mary and Henry Talbot should've gone. 100% Tom and Mary.


Lady Mary wished they would all stop looking at her like this. She wasn't going to burst into tears just because a man had died today. Not even if it was just like how Matthew had died all those years ago. Well… she might burst into tears. But not for the reason they thought.

It was all so ridiculously stupid. She'd told him that, but would he listen, no he would not. And why should he? She would have despised him even more if he had. She liked a man with a bit of backbone. Someone who wasn't afraid to stand up to her…

Her eyes flit unwillingly across the morose dining table to a certain…

But no, she wouldn't go there.

… What was she saying? Oh yes. No. Well. She didn't despise him. Not really. If anything, she despised herself. He hadn't done anything wrong. And that was exactly the problem. He hadn't done anything wrong, she had just been too blind and too stupid to see something that was right in front of her eyes. Right in front of her eyes…

Someone spoke but Mary's brain was too bogged down with misery to even register what they said or who it was.

Another voice, somewhere else, replied cuttingly and then there was movement and shapes and people but Mary didn't move. She didn't think. She couldn't.

The room emptied.

Mary sat perfectly still.

A sharp bell rang.

Then a figure appeared and a softly lilting Irish accent floated to her ears.

"Mary."

Her head snapped up. Darn. And she had been doing so well.

"It's Henry."

"What?" she asked with a heavy voice, confusion filtering into her brain. He wasn't here, was he?

"On the phone?" Tom's eyes were full of concern when she finally allowed herself to meet them. And that just made it ten times worse.

"So that's what that incessant shrilling is." Mary drawled, attempting her usual dry humour. Tom smiled a sad smile, and she knew he could tell that her heart wasn't in it. Damn him.

"So?" Tom prompted. Oh, Tom, why did he have to do this to her?

"I can't speak to him right now." Mary's tone was clipped, emotionless.

"I think you should." Tom insisted, widening those puppy dog eyes. Mary felt like she might just fall into them if she looked too long.

She looked away.

"Not now. Tomorrow."

"Come on, Mary. He needs you." Tom's pleading tone convinced Mary to look back. She immediately regretted it. His brow was creased in worry and his usually glowing smile was taught and withered. "Please." He whispered.

Mary practically crumbled.

Get a grip, Mary, honestly.

"Fine." She sighed, if only to get away from the suffocation that she was currently experiencing somewhere deep inside her gut.

Tom beamed at her. "Thank you."

"I don't know why you're thanking me." Mary muttered, angry at the way that smile made her feel – not that she'd ever admit it. She rose indignantly from her chair. "I'm not doing it for you."

"I know." Tom chuckled as she strutted slowly towards him, and she could virtually hear him raising an eyebrow, despite the fact she refused to look his way. "Just." He lightly caught her elbow as she passed forcing her to look into that deep, blue, ocean absorbing gaze. "Thank you."

It was barely even a whisper. And yet those two words were enough to send thousands of tiny shivers down her spine. And if that wasn't enough, she could have sworn her elbow was on fire from the simple contact of his calloused fingers on her soft skin.

Using all of her willpower, she tore herself away. She couldn't do this.

She walked up to the phone in the hall. She picked up the receiver. She listened to Henry's voice.

No shivers.

He sounded desperate.

How off-putting.

Oh for goodness sakes', Mary, his best friend died today, give him a break!

I guess some habits you never get over.

But either way, she should've realised sooner. She'd been ridiculously stupid. Of course she wasn't in love with him. She was in love with the idea of him. She was in love with the concept of being in love with someone like him. Because it made sense. Because it was easy.

What she hadn't realised was that she was already in love.

At least, she hadn't realised it until today.

When they had heard the crash and seen the smoke, obviously, she was scared. She was terrified. Car crashes don't exactly bode well for her. And of course she wanted to go, wanted to see what had happened. She was fond of Henry, don't get her wrong. But it wasn't until she saw Tom sprinting into the scene that her heart practically tore itself from her chest and raced after him.

At the time, she didn't know why her feet suddenly hurled themselves forward, or why her hands began frantically clawing at by-standers to get out of her way.

But now, she knew.

It was Tom. It had always been Tom.

When she had finally made it, and there was the car and the smoke and the crowd, and the people panicking, and the men in uniforms pushing people back, and she couldn't see him, she nearly screamed. She nearly flung herself into the burning vessel to tear around the wreckage looking for him with her bare and futile hands.

But then, there he had been. Frantically trying to help, of course. Desperately willing to risk himself to save others. Stupid man. What an idiot. What a ridiculous idiot. What a pointlessly ridiculously idiotically kind and selfless and brave and wonderful man.

And that was when she realised. She loved _him_. Not Henry. Henry had been a bit of fun. A possibility. A distraction. Just another suitor fulfilling his role in her games. Because at the sight of Tom, he paled into obscurity by comparison. Because at the sight of Tom, her choking, wrenching heart started to beat again, the burning tension ripping throughout her body tore itself away, her desperate breath escaped her all in one hurling gasp of relief. At the sight of Tom, she could think again, she could move, she could function, she could survive and bear to live another day, another second.

And despite the dead man charring in the skeleton of a mechanical monster to her left, and despite the man she had kissed mere minutes before moaning into the dust on her right, all she could think about was Tom.

"Mary?" It was Henry's voice down the telephone. She realised she hadn't spoken in over a minute. Had he been talking? She hadn't even noticed. How awful of her.

"Yes, Henry?" She at least had the decency to sound a little abashed.

"I need to know where we're going." He sounded drunk. She could imagine his tear-stained face in the firelight, with a glass of whiskey in one hand, and the telephone receiver in the other.

"Not now, Henry. Can't we talk about it in the morning?" She didn't think she could bear to do it now. She didn't think he could bear it if she did.

"But, Mary. I need to know. I can't sleep until I know." He wasn't going to let it drop. And, to be honest, he did have a right to know.

Mary took a deep breath. "I don't think I can do this anymore, Henry. And don't say you'll give up racing. Don't say you can change. Because I don't want you to change. You shouldn't have to. I just don't think it's fair to either of us to carry on."

"But, Mary…" he resisted. "Why?"

Mary opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. "Today. The crash. The whole…" she trailed off, desperately searching for something that could count as an excuse. "I just can't."

There was a pause down the line. "Ok. Now tell me the truth."

Mary sighed. "You know me too well, Henry."

He laughed, but it was hollow and pained.

She took a couple of seconds, trying to decipher a polite and gentle way of phrasing it. There wasn't one. Bracing herself, she muttered "It's Tom."

Silence.

"Branson." She clarified. Just in case. "I think I'm in love with him."

"I knew it." Thankfully, he did not sound overly distraught, although his voice was slightly strained. "The way you two talk; you're perfect for each other."

"I'm sorry, Henry."

"He'll make you happier than I ever could, Mary. I promise, I'm not upset. Well, not too upset." He made a sound that could almost classify as a laugh.

"Well, I'm sorry anyway. I wish you the best, Henry."

"Goodbye, Mary."

She hung up the phone.

She stared at the wall for a couple of seconds.

Then she lifted her chin, brushed down her clothes, wiped her face, and turned to return to the drawing room.

Only to find her way blocked by a familiar figure.

"Tom!" she exclaimed, half surprised, half terrified. "I thought you were in the drawing room with everyone else!"

"They went to bed." His voice sounded cold and Mary felt her heart plummeting, plunging into her stomach and suffocating it, choking on the rigid tension throughout her.

"Oh." There was an awkward pause. The air felt so much thicker. Invasive. Compressive. "How long have you been standing there?"

Tom ignored her and instead stepped forwards intently. "Did you mean it?"

Mary hesitated.

"And don't pretend that you don't know what I mean. Did you mean what you said about me? Or was it just a ploy to break up with Henry?" Tom appeared… angry, if anything.

Mary looked anywhere but at him. Her cheeks were flaming.

"You know, Tom, I am feeling rather tired. I think I might…"

Mary trailed off as Tom took more steps forwards towards her. "No, Mary. For once, I am done with you people side-stepping awkward situations that they don't want to face and thinking they can just smooth over those pesky emotions with a sleek smile and pleasantries."

She stepped back only to feel the cold, smooth stone of the pillar pressing against her shoulder blades.

"Tom… why are you…" Mary protested.

"Just answer the god-damned question!" Tom's hands slammed against the pillar either side of Mary, imprisoning her.

"Yes, I did mean it!" The words exploded from Mary's porcelain lips, shattering the glass façade for one millisecond. She was shocked at how good it felt.

"Thank God." Was the breathy, Irish sigh of a reply.

And she suddenly found herself more shocked as two rough lips slammed against her own.

It was so sudden and so shocking that she barely registered herself respond just as enthusiastically. She absolutely wasn't aware of her traitorous hands reaching up to twist themselves in his hair, or her treacherous body bend and mould itself to his in a pathetic attempt to get closer. Absolutely not. At least, that's what she told herself.

It was just, she had never been kissed like this before. Ever. So full of raw, aggressive passion and lust. It was disgustingly attractive. She felt something within the pit of her stomach light on fire and scorch dangerously throughout the whole of her body. It was incredible and terrifying, all at once.

And then, he abruptly pulled away.

Stepping back, he did his awkward half laugh and scratched the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry…" he blushed. "I didn't mean…"

Mary instinctively smoothed down her clothes and patted at her hair.

"No, no, Mr Branson, it's quite alright. People have a silly tendency to get caught in the moment, quite forgivable, no harm done." The icy sheet was back, reattaching itself to her perfectly positioned features. It would have been absolutely faultless were it not for the fact that she was panting ever so slightly.

"Mary…" Tom sighed. "Don't do this. That wasn't what I meant."

"Wasn't it?" Mary returned evenly, her disinterested, unattached tone gliding effortlessly out of her cold lips.

"No, Mary, not at all." Tom stepped forward once again and watched in delight as the ice began to melt revealing the scared, broken women he knew so well underneath.

"Are you… I mean…" Mary stuttered. She coughed, angrily. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, Mr Branson. Would you be so kind as to…"

"Mary, I love you too." Tom stated, cutting over her, meeting her gaze unflinchingly.

"Oh." Mary replied, poorly attempting to conceal her now appearing grin. "That's nice."

"Yes." Tom murmured. "I rather think it is." He stepped towards her again.

"But I must take some time to consider this offer, Mr Branson." Mary taunted, a teasing edge slipping into her voice.

"I don't remember making an offer, Miss Crawley." This could almost have passed as an innocent remark, had it not been for the sly smirk mirroring hers sliding onto his features.

"Strange. Because I remember you quite distinctly saying that you loved me." Mary raised a perfect eyebrow, her heart screaming at a thousand beats per second.

"That's not an offer, Miss Crawley. That's a fact." Tom reached out, gently taking Mary's hand in his, reeling her in.

"Does it make any difference?" Mary batted her lashes perfectly.

"Oh yes, Miss Mary, you see: I'm not asking for your permission to love you. I'm telling you I do. Absolutely and unconditionally." Tom whispered and leaned in, pressing his lips to hers once again.


End file.
